


Too Much

by Janekfan



Series: TMA prompt fics [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Bruises, Burns, Caretaking, Concussions, Confusion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Making Up, Martin Blackwood Takes Care of Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Sickfic, Strained Friendships, Strained Relationships, Vomiting, What Have I Done, and so does Tim!, he doesn't know what people want out of him, jon isn't in the best headspace, spooky illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26972698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Being marked by three entities in such quick succession would make anyone a little upset.new chap: prompt: jon shows tim thats hes just as much a victim as anyone else and tim is just like... ah. so we're both assholes. and jon insists that tim didnt do anything wrong (and obviously its all very whumpy and hurt/comforty). basically just... tim and jon making up because tim wants to after jon tugs at his heartstrings enough (because im a sucker for the whole "whatve i done" bit)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Series: TMA prompt fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082912
Comments: 148
Kudos: 657





	1. Chapter 1

When Jon stalked back into the archives the fierce conviction in his face belied his ragged appearance. Tim wasn’t stupid. He’d known there was something shady happening in this place probably before Jon did, considering. It didn’t stop him from purposefully hardening his heart against his pallid skin and bloody throat, his poorly bandaged hand, his filthy, mud-covered clothes.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice was soft and it set off a trembling in him that Tim could see from across the room. “Hey--” Without warning, Jon bent double over the nearest wastebasket, going down hard on his knees as he emptied his stomach painfully, shaking so hard the bin rattled. “Oh, oh, Jon.” Hands fluttering over his back, Martin hovered close, unsure of what to do, before settling next to him on the floor to hold his hair back, plaiting it loosely to keep it out of the way. 

“Nngh...s’sorry.” Jon collapsed the rest of the way, resting his weight over the bin, his forehead on the arm slung across the top. “I, I...clean. Clean it up.” Shuddering, voice thick and wavering on a heavy breath. “God, I. I’m so, so sorry.” Another bout of dry heaving cleaved through him, Martin’s hushed reassurances making the ire in Tim rise to vitriolic levels and if he stayed any longer in this room he knew he’d do something to upset Martin. Physical violence had never been the way he preferred to resolve disputes but the confirmation of being trapped here. Trapped by _Jon_ made him desperately want to lash out. Scream. Kick. Throw a tantrum and that wouldn’t do, even if the anger and dissolution flooding into every empty space left behind by the deaths of Danny and Sasha and his freedom begged him to take it out on the one _thing_ left that represented it all. 

“Tim, where are you going?” Martin’s attention was still focused primarily on the man panting under his palms, but he spared him a glance. 

“Can’t be here for a while.” He flashed a bitter smile. “Guess I’ll be back, won’t I?” He was suffocating and if he stayed here one second longer he’d explode and Martin didn’t deserve that. 

Martin had his hands full of a sick and shivering Jon so had no choice but to let Tim go. It was probably best at the moment. He’d been sniping at Jon even before he’d disappeared and the fury flashing behind his eyes wouldn’t help anyone right now. And besides, Jon was going to pass out any minute by the look of it. 

“Jon?” His head jerked up and he swayed where he kneeled. 

“Sorry, s’sorry…” the slurred apologies certainly weren’t a good sign. “‘L’get this cleaned up.” When he moved clumsily to do so, Martin stopped him with a hand on his cheek, ignoring his temperature for now in favor of attempting to catch his unfocused gaze. 

“Let me worry about that later.” And Jon looked stricken, but when Martin pulled him to his unsteady feet he was more concerned with staying upright, embarrassment shoved unceremoniously to the back of his mind. “Can you stand?” Whole, long seconds passed and Martin almost asked again, but Jon took a wobbly step only to topple into the taller man who caught him up and held him close. 

“S’sorry.” Martin hitched him a little higher. “Dizzy. Jus’... _ah_.” 

“It’s alright, Jon.” Who knew having a cot in the archives would prove to be so useful and Martin was grateful for it now, lowering him as gently as he could. “Nothing to be sorry for.” The hiss of pain sucked through his clenched teeth didn’t bode well. “I’ll be back.” With the first aid kit, warm water, maybe a change of clothes--he was pretty sure he had a few things. They’d be big on him but certainly cleaner than what he was in now. When he returned with his supplies, Jon had tipped onto his side, apparently asleep, and Martin was careful to wake him slow, worried when he didn’t seem to remember where he was or what was happening. With him so sluggish and lethargic, Martin wasn’t sure where to start (maybe a 999 call), deciding top to bottom was as good a plan as anything. Forcing cheer into his tone, he talked about what had been happening while he'd been away, dipping a cloth, wringing it out, and wiping the muck off his skin, noting the pallor in his face underneath all of the dirt. He had the start of a pretty intense fever and looking at him it wasn’t hard to puzzle out why but the only thing for it right now was water and rest. 

Jon pushed him away when he began on his neck and it took Martin several minutes to talk him back down, convince him that he was safe before he was allowed to hold a warm compress over the gash across his throat to loosen the blood. It was deeper than it looked and longer than he’d have liked; another brutal scar to add to his growing collection and how was any of it fair? Butterfly stitches applied and covered over with clean bandages, Martin gave Jon a break and kept urging him to drink. He was so silent, focused on pulling in short and shallow breaths, and Martin kept his questions to himself, trying to ease the ruined jumper over his shoulders when it became clear that he was too sore to do it on his own. Each centimeter bared developing bruises just beginning to black and Jon’s breath hitched the higher he was forced to raise his arms, exposing more over his stomach, his ribs and Martin couldn’t help himself. 

“What happened?” 

“Mm?” 

“These bruises?” He ran a delicate thumb over the edge of one, watched him shiver in response. 

“Oh…” Martin got the impression Jon was answering from somewhere far away and didn’t blame him. “Asked questions.” He didn’t elaborate and Martin moved on to his hands, draping the blanket over him while he unwrapped old dressings and examined the burn spanning his entire palm and fingers. He didn’t want to think about the shape of it, like he’d shaken hands with the wrong sort, and instead examined the broken blisters lining the long, ruined fingers of both hands, cleaning them gently and applying salves and more bandages before slipping a worn jumper over his head and joggers onto narrow hips, tying the cords to keep them secure. Jon was too pliant, too submissive, more than spent after whatever he’d been through and he sighed in heavy relief when he was finally allowed to lay down. 

“Better?” Martin brushed some stray curls out of his face after tucking him in and he nodded. 

“Tired.” 

“You can sleep, it’s alright.” Jon forced heavy lashes apart, closed them again when Martin swept light fingertips over them. “I’ll keep watch. You’re safe.”

Late into the next day, Martin saw Jon back to Georgie’s flat where he immediately curled up in bed with the Admiral, clutching his borrowed clothes, so baggy they dwarfed his small frame and made the vulnerability in him that much more. He shared a cup of tea, spoke with Georgie in a hushed voice and urged her to keep an eye on him if he’d let her. She nodded resolutely and wished him luck when he left to return to the institute. 

“Well?” Basira accosted him immediately as soon as he stepped through the door.

“ _Christ_ , Basira!” Hand over his heart, Martin calmed his racing heart, suddenly surrounded by the lot of them. 

“Well?” 

“He’s exhausted.” 

“Aren’t we all?” Martin ignored Tim’s comment. It wasn’t a competition, just a bad situation all around, and after treating and cataloging all of Jon’s myriad injuries, he didn’t feel like continuing along that track. It wouldn’t help anybody. It wouldn’t convince them that Jon was as much a victim in all this as they were. That he didn’t _want_ this. Instead.

“He’ll be back in a few days. Or probably tomorrow, knowing him.” 

“Wonderful.” 

“Tim!” Martin pinched the bridge of his nose, already exasperated. “Tim, just. Go easy, alright?” 

“Oh, I’ll _go easy_.” Full of grief and anger and heartbreak with nowhere for all of it to go, it had sharpened into a blade Tim wielded with deadly precision. Jon had been at the other end of it for a long time and despite his own frustrations with him, Martin wanted to shield him from the worst of it even if he knew he wouldn’t be able to. If Tim wanted to hurt Jon, he would, and it made him want to weep. 

Sure enough and right on time, Jon dragged himself into the archives, mumbling a breathy ‘thank you’ to Martin as he passed by him to his office on new fawn’s legs. It didn’t escape his notice that he was still wearing the jumper, bundled up in it with his bandaged fingers tangled in the sleeves. 

And work began again as though they’d never stopped. 

Jon could have spent the next eternity wrapped up in bed, bundled in the comfort of Martin’s clothes and hiding from his very new and very real responsibilities. He _ached_ , deeply, profoundly, in a million different ways, crushed by the weight of it all and barely able to breathe. Georgie was disappointed by his decision to go back to the institute but he had to do whatever he could to protect the rest of them, even if that meant playing into Elias’ hands until they came up with a solution together. 

If they would have him back. 

Reading the statements was going slow, too slow, the pounding in his head increasing whenever he tried to focus. Jon kept the lights low, avoiding the hallways with their cold fluorescent bulbs beaming down at him from above, bowing his back, trying to push him into the floor, keep him there like an insect pressed between pages and he would gladly succumb if it meant he could rest.

“Oi!” He jumped at the sharp voice, groaning when the stabbing hurt all over his body intensified. 

“T’Tim?” 

“‘Y’yeah.’” He mocked, tossing a stack of folders onto the already overflowing surface of the desk. 

“What, what’re these?” Though his hands were shaking and sore, Jon picked up the pile, paging through distractedly. 

“How the hell should I know. Martin said you asked for them.” He had?

“I don’t. I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” 

“Tch. Of course. Busy work to keep us preoccupied so we don’t have time to plot?” 

“Wha--no, no!” It seemed his paranoia continued to have lasting consequences and he supposed it was only fair. “No, I wouldn’t. I. I’m sure I asked for them.” Reasonably sure, though for the life of him he couldn’t remember when. He couldn’t remember asking Martin but there was no reason for Tim to lie. Fingers snapping in front of his face jerked him back to the present. 

“What’s wrong with you?” His eyes were narrowed and he was standing so close, too close, and suddenly Jon was on his feet, swaying into the wall and pushing past Tim in a desperate bid for the loo, head pounding enough to make him ill and only just making it in time to rid himself of the tea he didn’t remember drinking. Shaky, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning back against the wall and willing the spinning to stop or slow or do anything that might make it less overwhelming. He washed his hands, his face, letting the cool water drip from his chin and closed his eyes against his reflection in the mirror. When he returned Tim was gone and Jon was thankful, tears prickling, threatening, as he sat back in his chair and rested his forehead on his folded arms for only a moment. 

It was better in the stacks, dark and still, silent save for the rustling of statements and that didn’t make any sense at all even though something in the back of his mind insisted it did, encouraged him to pick one up and devour it. But the letters swam on the pages and his legs refused to hold him up any longer and he slid to the floor, hugging the folder to his chest and breathing in the stale scent of old, yellowing paper and ink. He felt so poorly, so tired, and he didn’t remember curling up on the floor but he must have, because he was, the statement still crushed in his arms like a safety blanket. How long had he been asleep? Getting up seemed too monumental a task and he let his eyes slip shut with a sigh, breathing through all the pain of his injuries. 

Too much. This was all too much. 

But it was quiet here among the boxes and envelopes, tucked with his back against the shelf grounding him, taking away some of that awful wooziness, the feeling of vertigo he hadn’t quite gotten rid of after his encounter with Mike Crew. He was safe here underground; underground was the opposite of up, the opposite of falling endlessly and he breathed in, out, slow, measured. Until his physical self seemed to drop away with everything else.

Plucked like a weed, Jon was lifted into the air, hauled up by his collar and set clumsily on his feet, pressed forcefully into the shelving. If it wasn’t for the hand at his throat (his _throat_ , she was going to slice him open, bleed him like a game animal) he would have fallen and he was so scared of falling, no air in his lungs, just the deafening rush of it in his ears, so he scrabbled desperately, the statement fluttering away somewhere in favor of holding onto wrists attached to arms attached to shoulders attached to Tim. The world tilted on its axis, rolling like a ship at sea and he was desperately afraid of being released into that endless void. 

“--Hiding down here?” How long had he been speaking? His face, features so twisted in revulsion of him he almost didn’t look like Tim, was close enough that he could feel his breath on his face. “Martin’s been worried sick looking for you!” Why was he yelling at him? He’d, he’d been here, not hiding, not doing anything. Just trying to, to, stay on the ground. Everything blacked out when Tim shook him roughly, shouting something else, and Jon didn’t know what he wanted, what would make him leave him alone, stop being so angry with him. He was going to be ill, too dizzy even when mercifully held still again and he was torn between letting go and taking his chances with Crew and sticking to Tim like a burr. But Tim made the decision for him, shaking him off, dropping him to his feet and shoving him forward and Jon knew he shrieked, shameful, loud, but he was falling, falling, falling and he hurt where he’d been pushed, like his bones were trying to make room by doing their level best to yank themselves free. 

But he was plunging down, straight down, unmoored, unanchored, too much space, infinite space and nothing to grab to slow himself and he was going to fall forever and ever and ever and--

“Jon!” 

No. He’d. How. 

“Martin…” Whimpering, voice choked with tears, more of them streaming, pouring down his face, and he clung to Martin, solid, strong, holding him.

“Tim, what did you do?” 

“M’falling...m’falling, Martin.” Clutching, clawing, he was going to hurt him if he wasn’t careful but he was too frightened, he had to be hurting him. Sobbing, selfish, stupid, and he couldn’t stop. 

“You’re not, I’ve got you, Jon, I won’t let you fall.” Murmuring gently, embracing him tightly and it hurt, but he’d rather hurt than fall forever. “You’ve got to take a breath, Jon.” But all the air was rushing past him, too quickly to drink up even a sip, let alone breathe any into his seizing chest. “I’ve got you, try for me.” And he did, he would swear it, he’d try anything for Martin but he’d always failed in the most important tasks. He’d always failed the most important people. 

At least he wasn’t falling anymore. 

“Tim, what did you do?” Martin shifted Jon, passed out over his shoulder with bandaged fingers still tangled in his jumper and he was surprised he hadn’t torn it in his panic. Gently he pulled him into his lap, boiling with heat beneath his hands and heaving hard-won, gasping breaths. 

“I--” He swallowed, shock naked in his expression. “I found him here, on the floor. Uh, pulled him up?” Tim raked his hair back. “I was rough, but. I didn’t mean.” Martin could only hope he looked as angry as he felt and Tim stopped speaking, following him to document storage like a lost puppy.

“Mm…” he held Jon tight, secure, relieved that he’d come around as quickly as he did even if he was groggy, setting him firmly on the cot, exerting pressure on his shoulders, an unspoken ‘I’m here, you’re here, no one is falling.’ He ducked his head, hiding from the light and groaning low.

“Jon, look at me.” He hadn’t noticed before, the black of his dilated pupils swallowed up by deep brown irises, but with the light, and his sensitivity to it, Martin suspected a head injury. “Jon?” Gently he tilted his face up with the tips of his fingers under his chin, trying to catch his dazed stare as it slipped over him like water over a stone. 

“Hey! Stop ignoring him!” Jon flinched, hands clapping over his ears and curling even farther into himself while Martin glared. “Sorry.” Tim mumbled, arms crossed, leaning against the wall to give them some space. 

“S’okay, Jon.” He inched closer. “Did you hit your head? Does your head hurt? Can I check?” 

“Check?” Before Tim could do much more than scoff, Martin shushed him. If he wasn’t going to help, then it would be better for him to leave. 

“Yep.” He didn’t wait for much more confirmation, just carefully reached forward under Jon’s wary gaze and buried his fingers in thick, unkempt curls, smiling softly when he leaned into the touch. Bolder, he cupped his face with his other hand, stroking along his cheek and watching his eyes drift closed with a hum. “Ah, oh, Jon.” Right at the back of his skull there was a large swelling, painful to the touch if Jon’s reaction was anything to go on. “Were you hit?” 

“Hit?” Jon’s wrapped, burned fingers brushed against his own when he went to check for himself. “Daisy hit me.” Just a stated fact that chilled Martin to the bone and he watched his other hand come up to touch the column of his bandaged neck. “Daisy cut me.” He glanced back at Tim, trying to gauge his reaction, relieved to see horror blossoming in his expression and when he turned to Jon again, it was as if he was seeing Martin for the first time. “Martin?” He let his weight fall into his palm, and when his dark, damp eyes slipped shut, tears ran down his face. “Don’, don’think m’well.” 

“Okay, it’s okay. I’ve--” his eyes flicked towards Tim. “ _We’ve_ got you.” Jon swallowed and Martin could feel it against his palm, literally holding his cut throat in his hands. "Can you tell us what's wrong?" 

“Hur’s. Spin...falling, m’falling.” He paled, clutched at the linens, his breath shallow and fast and even Tim came forward in concern.

“I’ve got you, won’t let you go anywhere, Jon.” To Tim, “Don’t think he can tell which way is up. Vertigo? Concussion? We’ve got ice packs in the freezer yeah?” 

“Anything else?” 

“Ginger tea? If we have it.” 

“M’tin…” He brushed stray curls back away from his forehead. “Stay? Please?” 

“Of course I will.” Gentle and soft and Tim returned with tea and cold compresses quickly, passing off the mug to Martin, going so far as to sit beside Jon. “I’ve got to let go of you now.” And the look of panic and sorrow and _resignation_ told him more about his state of mind than anything else. 

Martin promised he would stay. 

Martin was letting him go. 

Jon was not surprised. 

Just sad, so, so _sad_. 

Prepared to be tossed aside. 

“‘Course...s’sorry.” Another swallow, another and another, swallowing it down, how frightened he was, how lonely. Tears slipped over Jon’s skin, over Martin’s. “M’sorry, sorry.” 

Too many. 

Too much. 

He watched Jon pull away, swaying, woozy, grip tightening on the sheets such that his knuckles were bone white. Alone again. Alone always. How dare he think or hope or dream otherwise.

“Got’chu, boss.” Martin waited until Tim had him ‘round the shoulders, pressing him into his sturdy side, before removing his hand and holding the mug to his lips.

“Drink this down and then some sleep, I think.” Together, they tipped him carefully sideways, grabbing his hands when they flew out to the side in an attempt to break a nonexistent fall, and Tim pressed a cold pack to the back of his neck, a shadow of a smile crossing his face when Jon relaxed into the pillow. 

“You’re alright, boss. Won’t let you fall.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: au where jon and tim make up because jon shows tim thats hes just as much a victim as anyone else and tim is just like... ah. so we're both assholes. and jon insists that tim didnt do anything wrong (and obviously its all very whumpy and hurt/comforty). basically just... tim and jon making up because tim wants to after jon tugs at his heartstrings enough (because im a sucker for the whole "whatve i done" bit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I'd do a second chapter but the prompt fit so well!

Watching Martin remove the evidence of panic by carefully, slowly, swiping a damp flannel over Jon’s skin, Tim continued holding the cold pack in place. The man between them made a sound, nondescript, shifting enough that his lips parted with a soft sigh as he settled. 

“He’s made a right mess of these.” Martin lamented, gingerly lifting one hand to examine the heavy bandages, soiled with fresh blood and coming undone. Not altogether certain he wanted to know what was hidden away beneath, Tim stayed silent. “Would you mind fetching the first aid kit while I get rid of these?” He used the time away to take a deep breath, attempting to gather his rampant thoughts now that he was roped into fixing up their boss. There was always the possibility of giving him the kit and hightailing it out of that place and never setting foot near document storage again but before he realized what he’d done he’d accumulated other supplies he figured they might need and the relief in Martin’s eyes when he slipped back into the room was palpable. Jon’s hands were bare, blisters laid over blisters, broken and bleeding sluggishly from torn welts, one palm layered over with a nasty burn. Tim couldn’t help the noise torn from his throat in sympathy as the walls he’d built around himself began to crumble under the weight of Jon’s wounds--and he wasn’t even the one to bear them! Jon had acquired more scars, more shadows in the gaunt hollows carved into his body by his bones since Prentiss. It was like laying eyes on a stranger, or opening his own and finally seeing what his negligent ignorance had truly cost. 

Were these marks, this _pain_ , not proof that Jon had every right to be scared? Paranoid? To suspect them? When it was his own “friends” raising hands violently against him?

“What. Martin, what happened?” He accepted the water, easing Jon’s arm over the edge of the bed and doing Tim the kindness of not reminding him that he’d never cared to know before. 

“I couldn’t tell you what caused most of this, but you know. Daisy.” He swallowed, eyes narrowing as he dabbed away the worst of the scarlet slicking his skin and Tim saw red at the reminder. How dare she _touch_ him. “Hush now, you’re alright.” Jon’s arm twitched, an aborted attempt to tug his hand away from Martin’s surely painful ministrations. “Just cleaning these up.” 

“Hnn…” Saltwater-soaked lashes fluttered and damn his body’s reactions but Tim was at his side on the cot before he could blink and wholly unsure of what to do now that he was there, settling on running fingers through tangled curls, teasing out the knots as Martin worked. Clouded and slightly crossed, Jon’s glazed brown eyes peered up at him, through him, blinking slow, and Tim could feel the heat of his fever under his palms. 

“Hey, bud.” Surprising himself with his own softness, Tim continued combing through his hair. “Close your eyes, boss. Marto’s fixing you right up.” 

“ _Hur’s_.” Badly slurred and tinged with vulnerability he wasn’t used to anymore, Jon’s voice sent a chill racing up Tim’s spine. 

“I know.” He said anyway. “It won’t soon.” Trust and exhaustion won out, dragging bruised lids closed. “Martin.” Tim didn’t look up, tracing silver strands, so many, with the fingertips. “I would like to know. Please.” Martin hummed, finished up the first hand, the worst hand, and cradled it over Jon’s stomach in a poor attempt at elevation before starting on the next one. 

“I haven’t gotten much out of Jon--not because he won’t tell me!” He amended, remembering the promise Jon had made to be honest with them and clearly worried it would make Tim angry again if he thought he was keeping secrets. “He’s just. I mean.”

“I understand.” After leaving Elias’ office, whatever tenacity and fortitude Jon managed to scrape together after his ordeal with Daisy and Basira had faded quickly. Even Tim wasn’t able to ignore how bad off he was, more along the lines of being unable to explain than lacking any desire.

“I know she, she _hit_ him. He’s bruised all over. Clocked him with her gun I assume, to leave him concussed--I still can’t believe I didn’t notice sooner.” 

“It’s alright. We’ve all been. Preoccupied.” Some of them only with themselves. 

“He was filthy, covered in dirt and I think bl’blood? Not his. Or, not all of it I think.” Martin rubbed his own neck thoughtfully, tracing a path that mirrored the red grin carving up Jon’s throat. “I think.” He looked into Tim’s eyes, haunted. “I, I overheard them saying he’d been made to d’dig a grave.”

“His grave.” There was no real proof, not yet. But it felt right. And Tim felt sick. “His hands.” 

“The burn is bad, I don’t know how he got it.” A crease formed between Martin’s knit brows. “I. Tim.” He sighed. “You’ve been so furious with him.” He dragged both hands down his face. “Jon’s doing his best. Please, you have to believe that.” 

“I think I’m beginning to.” He’d yet to stop his detangling. Jon liked when people he trusted played with his hair, especially when he wasn’t feeling well. Unbidden and effervescent, memories rose to the surface of Tim’s mind, each a different moment, beads of time strung on delicate silk strands. Sasha. _Sasha_ , whose true face, true voice, had been written over and worn, her hands on Jon’s shoulders, working out the tension he carried there despite his complaints. Tim himself draping a cardigan over him where he slumped forward on his desk in Research when he succumbed to sleep. A rare moment at someone’s apartment, Jon three drinks in, flushed bright red and ridiculous, throwing himself into Tim’s lap and nuzzling his stomach until he got what he wanted; hands in his hair, on his back, honest to god cuddles. The embarrassment in the morning would paint him vivid with blush and he would accept the painkillers and tea with a shy grin. 

That Jon was still in there. 

Right? 

For the first time in his career Tim chose to come into work early, heading immediately to doc storage to find Jon curled up against Martin, ruddy face squished against his chest and arm slung over his waist as though he’d recently been clinging there. 

And if this had been another time, another universe, he would have teased them both, but the shadows under their eyes were beginning to match. 

“We had a hard night.” Martin yawned hugely and Tim caught a quick glimpse of glassy brown at the movement but Jon passed out again in the next second. “Nightmares. You remember Crew?” Tim nodded. “Explains the vertigo. He’s going to want to work.” Martin’s palm found its way to the back of Jon’s head, tucked him under his chin as he exhaled, slow and measured. 

“And you want him to rest.” 

“He won’t.” 

He didn’t. 

But the dizziness kept him in his office for the most part and Tim helped keep an eye on him, checking up regularly, awkwardly. It was almost like old times. Except Jon was careful not to speak. Not now that he might force answers out of someone. Not now that he might be hurt because of it. Jon was smart. He tried to remember the things he learned because he only seemed to learn the hard way and right now he was trying to figure out Tim while Tim was trying to figure out himself, wary of the change towards him, confused when instead of lashing out, he asked if he needed anything.

“N’no, thank you, Tim.” 

“It’s no trouble.” But it was physically painful to watch the gears turn as Jon balanced the possibility of pissing him off with how uncomfortable he was in this situation. “I’ll check back later, yeah?” 

“Uh. Y’yeah. Yes. I mean, yes.” Nervously, he shifted between folders. “Of c’course.” 

The day dragged and Jon’s fever and groggy exhaustion lingered, kept barely in check by Martin plying him with the painkillers and fever reducers because he refused A&E. It was frustrating, even if he was looking somewhat improved. When they caught him asleep it was often in the throes of a taxing nightmare. He was a shadow in his attempts to avoid them all, to focus on work, and now that Tim was paying attention he didn’t like how Basira was so cold, how Daisy made Jon flinch on purpose, how Melanie went out of her way to collide with him in the narrow hallways. How he was slight enough, unsteady enough that it sent him into the wall. 

How he did nothing about it except murmur apologies and move past them as quick as he could. 

Jon was back to pushing himself too hard, not bothering to ask for help because he’d never gotten any before so it wasn’t worth bothering with it now. He was alone. Deserted by everyone except for Martin--and _oh_ the way his expression lit up at the sight of him. How soft his voice became when he thanked him for the tea. Tim knew Martin couldn’t see it yet, or wouldn’t let himself realize, but Jon was taken with him. Smitten. And already believed beyond a doubt that he had no worth. As prickly as Jon could be there was so much love in him just vying for a way out. 

How could Tim have forgotten that? 

Tim paced the length of the archives three times before heading back to check on Jon, alarmed when the office was empty. Worry, both familiar and unfamiliar, twined its way around his heart. He'd watched as the afternoon hours slipped by and Jon became worse and Tim didn’t bother asking anyone he came across; they didn’t care, _he_ wasn’t supposed to care. But there weren’t many places Jon would go and Tim found him in the breakroom stabilizing himself on the sink. He didn’t react, didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know anyone was behind him, and Tim could make out shivery, deliberate breaths. Jon let go, lifting a hand dazedly to his forehead and staggering backwards such that Tim had to steady him. 

“Whoa there, Boss.” Softly, quietly, Tim knew his head was still pounding more often than not no matter how adamant his denial. It didn’t stop Jon from flinching like he’d been struck or attempting to whirl around and only making it all that much worse as eyes filled with fear rolled back into his head and Tim had to catch him outright, lowering him to the floor and pillowing his shoulders in his lap. Unconsciously, he laid a palm over his overwarm forehead, dragging fingers back through damp strands rhythmically and wondering how he’d react to waking up with Tim staring down at him. They were dancing around each other, or at least Tim was. Jon couldn’t do much more than sit at his desk in what amounted to pyjamas and pretend to work in an attempt to wedge some normalcy back into his life. 

“What happened?” At least now Martin’s inquiry wasn’t accusatory as he knelt beside them and checked over Jon himself. “How long?” 

“Minute. Maybe two? He, uh. I surprised him and when he turned…” he trailed off, gesturing with a sigh. 

“Ma’tin…” nothing more than a small breath of awareness in recognition of his voice, eyes still closed. 

“You should be at your desk.” Lightly scolding.

“Nn...was col’...tea…” Tim met Martin’s eyes with worry at the barely coherent jumble of syllables caught on his sluggish tongue and he held up a hand, signaling him to wait. 

“What’re we going to do with you, hm?” 

“...Dunno…” He’d failed to understand the gentle ribbing for what it was, instead answering honestly, tearfully, and it tugged on Tim’s heartstrings. Martin chuckled kindly to ease the sting, moving forward to lift his weight off from Tim and standing still to let Jon wind a hand loosely into his jumper, hanging on for dear life with a gasp. 

“You sound tired.”

“Mmyeah...tire’...” And that discordant admission alone was enough to cause alarm, doubly so when his body lost all rigidity in Martin’s hold. 

“Martin--”

“Shh, Tim. He’s alright.” Protectiveness urged Tim to follow them back to document storage. Concern made him sit down before Martin asked. “Stay with him? I don’t want him to forget and wander off again. I’m gonna get that tea and something for the fever.” Tim supported his chin with a hand, elbow digging sharply into the top of his knee, and watched Jon sleep. With his eyes, he traced invisible constellations over the worm scars dotting his skin and connected their lines to the ink dark splash of lashes twitching as he dreamed. “What’re you thinking about?” 

“How much running I’ve been doing.” 

“Mm.” 

“How much easier it was to ignore all this if I just hated Jon instead. Blamed him for it.” He lifted his fingers in a bitter and general indication of their unreasonably bad situation. “He’s made mistakes. We all have. And his are the only ones I’m not willing to forgive.” Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, stung. “Why is that?” His skin blushed with heat when his voice broke on a sob and before Martin could speak they were interrupted. 

“Head’spounding…” He could barely keep his eyes open. 

“Ah, I’m sorry, love, I know, here,” he was like a rag doll when Martin lifted him. “This’ll help.” Tim watched the ease with which Martin navigated Jon. All sweet and kind, steadying his hands when they proved too shaky to hold the cup, testing his temperature with the inside of his wrist when Jon was distracted with swallowing down the medicine. 

“Shouldn’t do this.” Whispered, lost and undone, as Martin tucked him in, gripping back tightly when Jon grew dizzy with the change. “M’sorry.”

“You say that too often, Boss.” 

“Hush, both of you.” To Jon, “we can all talk later, when you’re feeling better. It’s okay to need help. It’s okay to rest.” And while he didn’t look convinced, he was helpless against the drag of that heavy, insistent tide of exhaustion. 

“Never liked to owe people, our Jon.” Martin sighed, frustrated. 

“It’s not a transaction. I wish he’d trust that I only want to help.” Tim snickered ruefully as Martin tucked stray salt and pepper strands behind Jon’s ears. 

“He’s always been suspicious of decency.” 

“That’s not right.” There was a lot wrong with it, and far too much to solve at this moment. 

“You look knackered, Martin. Go home.” He needed caring for after keeping them all together like he’d done. “I’ve got it from here.” 

“I don’t want to ask that of you.” 

“You’re not asking, Marto.” 

“Tim--”

“I need to. I. I need to do this.” 

Tim was worried that the only reason Martin left him here alone was because he was too tired to spend another night here keeping an eye on the both of them. He only had himself to blame when it came to the loss of trust. 

It was no secret his dislike of Jon. 

He hadn’t forgotten his treatment of him just the other day. Yanking him up off the ground and shouting at him, blaming him for his confusion and unsteadiness, for worrying _Martin_ while _he’d_ been the one ill and frightened and unmoored on the dusty floor. A mournful cry jolted him out of his musings, and the nightmare didn’t sound kind, wrenching Jon awake and leaving him panting, narrow chest heaving, eyes wide and unfocused in the dim.

“Hey.” Soft and quiet, it didn’t stop Jon from jumping in surprise, nearly swooning when he jerked his head in the direction of his voice. “Back with me?” 

“Tim.” Real surprise, he blinked hard, trying to clear his bleary vision. “Yeah. S’sorry.” Jon offered him a sheepish quirk of his lips. 

“I’m the one who needs to apologize, Jon.” He swallowed thickly and Tim could hear the click in his throat, somewhere behind the bandage hiding that yawning red grin from sight.

“Wh’what?”

“I’ve treated you unfairly.” 

“No, no, Tim. You. You had every right! I was out of line and suspected the worst with no proof and didn’t trust yo--” Jon was trying to get up, ignoring how it had to hurt, and when Tim made to stop him, he flinched in real fear and backed himself into the corner. “S’sorry. I. It’s, it isn’t you, I swear.” Guilt wrapped around Tim’s heart like a thorny vine at his stammering apologies, at the way Jon laughed at himself and scrubbed his face with the back of a bandaged hand, staring up at the ceiling as new tears pooled in his eyes. “A lot’s h’happened.” When he closed them, the damp rolled down his cheeks into the grey at his temple. “I,I,I know you don’t w’want to hear it. But I, I don’t have anything else left t’to offer and I’m so s’ _sorry_.” Jon tucked up his knees and buried his tear-stained face in the blankets he pulled around himself. Scared and small and awaiting derision. Tim edged closer. 

"Jon.” He reached out to touch and thought better of it. “I think. I think I'm ready to hear it now." Consumed by constant fear and torment, run ragged for months and months, when Jon risked glancing up at him Tim could finally look past his anger and see him. Flushed with fever, thin and drawn, bruised and beaten and burned. 

But still Jon. 

Still Jon, terrified of the kind of help he'd been taught by experience not to ask for. Not to accept. Not to trust. Not to _need_.

“No, n’no, Tim. It’s.” He sniffed, tried to offer Tim a watery smile. “M’not feeling w’well, heh. You know how I, how I am.” 

“I know you don’t take care of yourself.” He continued before Jon could interrupt. “I know I’ve left you to deal with this alone.” Indeed, at the very first sign of trouble, Tim abandoned him to his own devices. “I understand why it’s been difficult to trust me.” 

“Not just you.” Tim had to strain to hear him, voice tiny, wavering with misery. “It’s so _hard_ to trust, I have to, to think about it, _choose_ it, don’t I. Talk myself out of how a’ _afraid_ I am all the t’time. I can’t even trust myself, my _words_. I. They. It’s easier to not speak at all, if it can be helped. And I _try_. But. Tim.” Fraught, brown irises nearly swallowed by black pupil bored into him, begged him to listen, to _see_. “I’m a monster.”

“Jon--” He tugged at messy curls, ignoring the pain it _had_ to cause, the spots of blood, and if Jon would let him, he would need to fix the wrappings after this. He’d folded into himself even tighter, rocking himself just slightly in an attempt at comfort. 

“If everyone is saying it, it must be true. But I’m trying. I promise, Tim, I promise. I was hoping it counted for something, anything. I can’t. I.” He broke off, attempting to pull himself together, face contorted and when he noticed Tim’s stricken expression, stumbled on with half-thought out reassurances. “I, I won’t stop! T’trying, that is. I, I, I want to, to be better. I don’t want to hurt anyone. It’s not about counting, it’s about doing the right thing. Or something close to--it never seems to work out, I’m not. I keep doing the _wrong_ things so I know--but I p’promise--and besides, D’Daisy’s watching, if you’re worried, heh.” He laughed, a little broken thing, tears glittering in his eyes. “She’ll put me d’down. If that makes you feel any better.” 

And _god_ how could he _think_ Tim wanted _that_? Jon, living with the knowledge that any mistakes he made could lead to--

Hanging over his head. Just awaiting collapse. 

“That’s. Jon, I don’t want her to do that.”

“Oh. Did.” Tim realized the pause was an attempt at managing his powers of compulsion. “Did you want to? Instead I mean?” Tim recoiled in horror at the genuine curiosity, the dull acceptance that they all might be waiting for their chance. Numbness flooded his fingers. And even though Tim knew Jon was trying to use the right words, the ones that would make _him_ feel better, he was furious. 

“How could you think that?!” Jon held up his raggedly bandaged hands, the blisters from digging his own grave and who knows what else hidden from view. 

“I, I’m sorry, I. You’re right, that was stupid of me. I’m sorry, Tim, I’m sorry, I--” Tim cut him off by sweeping him into an embrace, pressing his face into his shoulder. He was little more than bones rattling around in a scarred and ruined skin, shaking in his arms, his own held away, stiff. Dear lord, what had he done? “T’Tim? I, I’m sorry I’ve upset you.” 

“Stop it, Jon.” And he collapsed, spent from his outpouring, breath loud in Tim’s ear. “Just stop.” Tentative, Jon wrapped him up in return. “I’m going to do better.” 

“You don’t--”

“I do. And I am.” Damp soaked into his sleeve despite the silence with which Jon sobbed, little more than uneven, ardent gasping as they clung to each other. 

“B’but.” He pressed closer, starved for it. “I.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“I’ve been so _afraid_.” Murmured against his shirt, Tim could feel the shapes of his words, the trembling of his lips. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you. You mean. If, if you--I couldn’t stand it. If it wasn’t real.” Desperately, he whispered, thick with tears. “Don’t think I’d survive losing you again.” Too much loss. Too much all around and not one time had Tim thought about who he still had.

“I’m going to help you.” Tim realized then he’d been crying as well. “Like I should have from the start of this mess.” Gently, he pulled him away, took his damaged hands. “Let me get these fixed up. If Martin sees them, he’ll have both our heads on pikes.” For a moment, Tim was worried it was too soon, that Jon would need to hide this vulnerability from him, and he held his breath, until he nodded, just once.

It would take time, but they’d made a start.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two chapters can stand together, but I've been enjoying the Tim and Martin Care-for-Jon Team up...too much! For it to end now apparently. 
> 
> Lemme know if this was a terrible idea <3

“Hey boss. This came for you.” 

“Thank you, Tim.” Jon accepted the package, turning it over in his hands and giving it a little shake, glancing up when Tim sat across from him. “You want to see.” Carefully phrased so as not to be a question and risk a compulsion. 

“Yeah!” Almost to himself, Jon smiled shyly at the enthusiasm. It was good to see Tim in better spirits. It was good to see him at all really, especially lately as they rebuilt their friendship. With meticulous care, Jon peeled away the brown paper, dragging it out just to see Tim fidget, and so distracted with contained mirth, something sharp pricked his exposed finger. Reflexively, Jon stuck the bleeding digit in his mouth, muttering ‘ouch’ around the tang of copper on his tongue. “Oh, bit you did it?” 

“So it would seem.” He muttered, examining the tiny wound and wiping the remaining blood off on his borrowed hoodie when he deemed it of no consequence. 

“Jon.” Tim moaned, despite the multitude of rusty stains already in abundance. 

“What?” Attention now focused on the filthy vintage syringe held delicately in his bandaged hands. “Doesn’t _seem_ , uh, well, that is to say--” 

“ _Spooky_?” Tim helpfully provided, grinning broadly when Jon scoffed. 

“And it didn’t come with any statements or names?” 

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p.’ “Up on tetanus, I hope.” 

“ _Elias_ ,” he couldn’t help it; uttering his very name made Jon’s face twist. “Made certain we were all up to date on our vaccinations.” 

“How magnanimous of the _Big Boss_.” 

“Yes, quite.” Jon rewrapped the object, this time paying careful attention to the pointy end. “Still, to be safe I’ll take it to artefact storage.” He stood too quickly, catching himself on the desk and hissing between his teeth when pain rocketed up his arm from his burned palm. 

“Jon!” Tim’s hands were on him, twin points of support, and while not unwelcome, he could do without more fussing and fretting. He’d no idea one could feel so smothered by just two people.

But it was lovely to have friends, people who didn’t look at him with fear or anger. 

“I’m alright, I’m alright.” He waved him away, not unkindly, before heading off to artefact storage. His heart felt light enough to ignore the odd stare he received from the attendant as he signed his name beside the information logging in the syringe. Yes. The Unknowing was looming on the edge of all things but now he wasn’t alone and when he settled down for the night on the cot in doc storage, the coring emptiness was less. 

It wasn’t a surprise waking to lingering dizziness and exhaustion, not since Crew and a concussion, but this morning felt different. Off somehow, in a way Jon could feel in his gut. It took longer to put himself to rights and the energy he’d gained back over the last few days seemed to have disappeared over night. Not unheard of, merely frustrating. Jon looked at himself in the restroom mirror, stuck his tongue out like he’d seen done in movies and traced the shadows made prominent by his washed out complexion. The band of crisp white ringing his neck still stood out and Jon hadn’t yet been brave enough to look. Absently he scratched at the edge of it, wincing at the sensitivity, before taking up his cane and meandering to his office. 

It was probably nothing. He would keep this to himself for now. The fragile peace he’d made with Tim was far too new to add another stone to the mountain pressing down on them both. If he broke it again now he wouldn’t be able to handle Tim’s rejection again. It seemed as though Martin had already been by, leaving his customary tea, paracetamol, and a packaged snack he didn’t have the appetite to eat. But the statements. There were a few that caught his eye, ones that he’d set aside for one reason or another. Ones that were _real_. He hadn’t understood why or how he knew but that was before he’d been on the run for murder. Before he knew what Elias was trying to do. Swallowing, throat sore, Jon sat with relief, knuckling the residual sleep from his eyes and selecting the folder closest to him. A tape recorder began to run, its quiet whirring a strange but familiar comfort. 

“Shall I tell you a wretched story?” It neither confirmed nor denied, but seemed instead to wait. 

“Jon?” The creak of the old door roused him from a doze he didn’t recall falling into. 

“Hm?” How long-- “Oh. Y’yes, Martin?” He pushed himself up off his desk where he’d been resting his aching eyes. “Taking a short break. Can I, can I help you?” 

“You look peaky.” The worry, while wrapped up in his scrutinizing, was pouring out of Martin, welling up, drowning Jon in guilt. He’d already demanded so much of his time. Martin deserved to be free of him. 

“I’m alright. Tired.” A little truth, just to stretch the lie. Offer him a crumb and for a long moment Jon was worried he wouldn’t take it. 

“Well, it’s late, almost half nine. Was checking in to remind you of the time.” He didn’t mention how he’d known Jon was still in his office. 

“Why?”

“I just said--”

“No, no. Why are you still here?” He watched him fidget. “ _Martin_.” 

“What!” Jon raised an eyebrow. “It really is late and if you’re tired you should rest?” Jon sighed, acquiescing to Martin handing him his cane and all but escorting him to bed. He didn’t mind it, the coddling, not really, found it a comfort ever since being carted off into the wood to die. He’d been alone then. 

He wasn’t alone now. 

“Good night, Jon.” 

Jon was coming down with something, Tim was sure of it, the familiar niggling _care_ that had become so foreign making his heart ache behind the cage of his ribs, like it no longer fit there. He’d been trying not to smother the man, but the glimpses he caught in between their awkward visits didn’t bode well because of course, Jon insisted on doing everything he could by himself and it was clearly taking a toll. Lessons learned, Tim supposed, considering the tense, if not downright hostile, relationships Jon had with the rest of them. 

“Jon?” Just in case he’d fallen asleep at his desk again Tim peeked into the office without knocking. “Oi, Jon. You look terrible, boss.” He lifted his head from where he’d been staring vacantly at the blotter. The flush high in his face underscored slowly blinking eyes, lashes heavy and salt damp. 

“Jus’ tired.” 

“Got a feeling it’s a little more than that.” When he didn’t argue, Tim knew he’d struck a chord. “Can I see?” 

“Mm.” Jon closed his eyes against Tim’s palm touching his forehead. 

“Bit of a fever there, bud. How long have you been feeling run down?” Why didn’t he notice it was this bad? 

“Wasn’t really...‘till today. Thought. Thought it was, I was. The statements sometimes. S’like I crave them.” He coughed lightly. “Like uh, like. Smoking? Used to be.” There wasn’t time right now to unpack that. He knew there was something wrong with the statements ever since they’d started and each _real_ one had put Jon almost out of commission. Couldn’t write it off as stress from a new job any longer. Too big to think about right now. But he could think of Jon. 

“Guess not?” The twitch he received could have been interpreted as a shake of the head. “Let’s get you lying down, yeah?” Tim caught him when standing sent Jon careening sideways, taking note of the sweaty heat and delicate trembling in his hollow bird-like bones, the apologetic hum. Luckily, it wasn’t far or Tim would’ve ended up carrying him outright. As it was he divested him of his worn (most likely borrowed) trainers and oversized jumper, deciding his faded band tee and joggers would do for sleep. 

“Sorry...dunno…” Voice burned away, slipping in and out with each syllable, Jon stopped to cough, swallow thickly, and Tim tucked him in up to his shivering shoulders. 

“Get some rest, Jon.” 

“Don’tell Martin. Don’wan’im...t’worry.” Admirable, but with no desire to keep that promise, Tim was relieved when Jon went limp beneath the blankets before he had a chance to lie. For a moment, just to be sure, Tim watched his stomach rise and fall unsteadily before leaving him in search of Martin. 

Tim found him in the stacks looking for more information about the Stranger which really only amounted to flipping through far too many pages and skimming their horrors in vain. It was something to do while they waited, trapped like rats in this convoluted maze, maybe it would even be helpful. Even so, Jon needed looking after and Martin set his mind to it as a distraction. 

“Tim said you weren’t feeling well.” Deft and practiced, Martin’s fingers undid the bandages around Jon’s hands and he examined each one carefully assessing their progress before wrapping them securely. They looked good, much better than they had a few weeks ago when Jon came back to them worse for wear and freshly traumatized. 

“Trai’or...can’keep secrets.” Jon swallowed, once, twice, touching his throat and grimacing. 

“Don’t be cross with him, he’s spying for me.” Martin laughed shortly, no more than a puff of air, distracted with checking Jon over as he shivered in front of him with chills. “You're feverish again. I thought we’d kicked that.” 

“Mm.” He leaned into Martin’s touch, whined petulantly when he pulled away to work on the gauze shielding Daisy’s still sensitive reminder. “Had done…” Pale, his sallow complexion set off the red around his eyes, the black shadows pooled under them. 

“Jon,” he trailed the tips of his fingers lightly over the back of his neck, “what’s this?” Beneath the bandage there was what looked like a spreading bruise, deep and dark, banked coals trapped underneath his skin and radiating blistering heat. 

“Wh’whas what?” Slurred and slow and Martin bit down on his mounting panic as Jon’s head tipped farther forward, chin resting above his too-prominent and unevenly heaving clavicle. 

“Jon?” He continued to collapse, becoming ever smaller, to the point where only Martin's careful grip was keeping him from tumbling off the cot. 

“Nn…” 

“Okay, alright, love.” Gently, Martin drew him back, running careful fingers through his matted, sweaty curls before settling him on the pillow and coming around to kneel, to get a good look at him. “Oh, oh, shh.” He thumbed away tears, cupped the back of his head. “We’ll figure this out. You’re so tired, just close your eyes.” And when Jon’s breath slowed he immediately went to find Tim. 

“Something’s wrong.” 

He _hurt_. All over, top to toes and everywhere in between, and he didn’t have the breath to explain. The bruises he thought were getting better had become mottled with black and blue and purple and above them his skin itched and burned like fire and he gripped the surface he was laid upon as everything tossed around him, a ship unmoored and adrift at sea.

Sinking. Lungs heaving like a bellows, taking in water and salt and foam.

Voices, familiar, but so far away, fading in and out as he came up for air before being dragged down deep and dark where sunlight never dared reached. 

He _hurt_. But there were no words.

Just a weight, pressing him down, so heavy, so persistent, it was impossible to shift it. His skin didn’t fit, too small, tight. Drawn like hide over his ribs and threatening to break them one after the other, to snap them in two like dry wood to fuel the burning, burning, burning spreading out ad infinitum. Every scar _screamed_ out, seams undone, one tug and he’d unravel and they’d _see_ how scared he was.

Coward. 

Coward.

Coward. 

He _hurt_ and there is singing in the walls and he is afraid.

He could stop this, all of this. Should have let Daisy finish it. At least the grave had been already dug.

The following morning Tim found Jon struggling to swing his legs over the side of the cot, panting with the effort of moving stiff and aching limbs. He set the tea aside on a filing cabinet not strewn with piles of research to place a staying hand on his arm, drawing his attention. 

“...Tim.” Breathy and strained, it sounded as though speaking pained him. 

“Where’re you headed? Looks like you could use a lie in.” 

“Wh’what? Oh. I. Don’ remember.” 

“Tell you what.” Tim pressed the mug into his trembling hands, lingering to be certain he had it. “Gonna go grab my laptop and we’ll make a day of it. Drink your tea or I’ll be hearing about it from Martin.” 

They took turns sitting with Jon throughout the day, exchanging concerned glances when he became groggy and disoriented, more and more unaware. He barely moved, exhausted and content with their company, audibly murmuring in discomfort when they touched anywhere hurting and Tim could tell it was making Martin worry. Jon had been improving steadily only to lose ground this quickly? Something was wrong and again, Martin was the one strong enough to confront it head on. Tim looked up at him when he slipped into the room, kneeling on the tile and taking Jon’s hand, tracing along the cloudy bruises peppered over the back of them.

“I need to see.” 

“See what?” But he’d been talking to Jon whose half lidded and glazed fever-bright eyes watched dazedly. It didn’t look as though he intended to speak, Tim wasn’t sure he’d even registered what Martin was asking. His lips parted, tongue sweeping over chapped lips. 

“H’hear it?” Like it was a secret shared between them, Jon’s voice didn’t rise above an earnest whisper. Martin ignored him in favor of replacing his hold with Tim’s, mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“Just a quick, look,” he soothed when removing the quilt was akin to plucking a string, leaving Jon quaking with chills. 

“B’but you, i’it. Behin’ th’walls.” 

“What’s he talking about Martin?” 

“ _Oh._ ” Shocked, Martin gasped. “Oh, Jon.” He’d lifted the hem of his shirt enough to bare an expanse of mottled skin creeping under his joggers with even more spreading in a dark swathe towards his chest.

“Th’song.” Jon flinched, tugging his hand away from Tim’s tight grip, revealing the black flowering under his thumb. “Th…” 

“Martin?” 

“This is bad. I don’t, I don’t want to move him. He’s.” Bruised all over. Anywhere they touched more than feathlight blossomed new and the marks from Daisy only provided a muted pastel backdrop for additional ink-dark splotches. 

“Mmah…” 

“Hush a moment, love. It’s alright, you’re alright.” 

“Sing...singing. Can, can you hear’t?” Martin held his grasping fingers gently where they tried to tangle themselves into his jumper. “Not, not right.” He coughed, winced.

“I heard, Jon. Let me speak with Tim.” He sat beside him, cradling his hands to keep them still. “I’ll make the call and explain how to find us.” Thank god. Tim didn’t know how Martin was so calm with Jon gasping for every breath next to him, burning away to nothing and out of his mind with fever. 

“Okay, go, I’ve. I’ve got him.” He hesitated, as if thinking if he should try to explain something important with a look alone. “Go, Martin.” 

“I’ll be back.” 

And Tim was alone with Jon’s frantic murmurings, petting sweat slick curls back to try and calm him.

Jon’s eyes went wide, brimming black with pupil, before rolling back beneath fluttering lashes, hands reaching, reaching, reaching, and finding only Tim who reached back, caught him up, cradled him, held his bleary stare just as tightly. 

“Tim! Tim, T’Tim…the worms!” And the fear is shining there in his eyes, bright and blinding and he’s holding on to him with all he has. 

“They’re gone! They’re gone, Jon, I promise. I promise, buddy.”

“Tim--” A ragged cough tore itself explosively from his chest and with horror, Tim watched Jon’s pale lips fleck with dark blood. 

“It’s alright. I’ve got you...Martin! Oh, god, Martin!!” Shouting, screaming himself hoarse as he ran fingers reflexively through Jon’s hair. 

“Nngh…” 

“Hey, hey, stay with me, Jon.” He didn’t mean to shake him, but didn’t know what else to do because Jon was losing consciousness in his arms and he could do nothing. “Martin! _Martin_.” The relief was a palpable tension in his chest when the other man slid to a stop in front of them and fell to his knees, hands hovering over Jon like a swarm of butterflies. 

“They’re on the way, Tim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't edited this so I hope it made an amount of sense? Being creative lately has been ROUGH frens. 
> 
> <3 <3 <3 Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Can't Get Up- Prompt Fill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28055544) by [captaincravatthecapricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincravatthecapricious/pseuds/captaincravatthecapricious)




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